"Keep going!" Baldur let out a sigh as he commanded his three workers. They were currently in the mines, toiling away to gather iron for him. At first, they had been resistant, but after a week of being beaten within an inch of their lives, they began to straighten up.
During that time, Baldur had learned a great deal about not only the three workers but also the surrounding areas. Galrum, Arson, and Jora were the names of the three individuals before him. Galrum, a large, bald man, stood as their leader. Arson and Jora, much smaller than Baldur himself, were more amenable and eager to please him due to his exceptional skill and strength.
The four of them, including Baldur, had once been part of a mountain clan but had broken off under the leadership of Galrum. For some odd reason, they had believed that leaving the safety of larger numbers would lead to a better life. Baldur scoffed at their misguided decision, observing where it had landed them.
Baldur had also learned from his compatriots that the "Crows" mentioned by everyone were a southern fighting force that prevented the Free Folk from traveling south of the wall. He wasn't sure about the extent of what lay beyond the massive wall, but he had intentions to venture there eventually.
According to Galrum, this particular area was relatively safe from other tribesmen, but Baldur knew he had to be cautious of wandering packs like the one Galrum had encountered. While they shouldn't pose a significant threat, Baldur was determined to over-plan and prepare for any potential siege.
Originally, Baldur had intended to create runes utilizing the mist to make his dwelling invisible to mortals, but it seemed that the mist did not exist in this strange location. Moreover, his knowledge of runes had proven to be virtually useless.
That didn't mean he couldn't carve enchanting runes, though. Arson had informed him that some people in their old tribe had runes on their bronze equipment. If Baldur could acquire an item with runes, he could study and reverse-engineer it. The process wouldn't be too challenging; he would just need to shift from one system to another.
"Boss! I finished in this spot!" Jora's voice sounded, drawing Baldur's attention. Jora, like the others, was currently chained to a post near the iron ore deposits, tirelessly mining for the past few hours. He was diligent and the hardest worker of the three, evident in his progress.
Baldur nodded to Jora and replied, "Take a break. It'll be lunchtime soon, so you'll get a longer rest than the others."
Jora's face lit up with gratitude, as if Baldur had bestowed a great favor upon him. The man sat down and leaned against the cave wall while Galrum and Arson continued their toil, the echoing sound of picks against stone resonating through the mine.
After a brief stretch, Baldur returned to his work. Currently, he was attempting to assemble a wrist-mounted crossbow, but the bowstrings he had made from sinew kept snapping. Letting out a sigh of frustration, he set aside the mini crossbow and retrieved something he had prepared just in case.
The crossbow itself was constructed from thin pieces of Bone Steel, the same material he used for most of his equipment. The metal possessed inherent magical properties, making it harder than mortal metals. However, finding a suitable bowstring proved challenging, as the metal underwent extreme stress when bent.
As indicated by the snapped bowstrings scattered at his feet, he needed something of equivalent strength. Luckily, being someone who valued preparedness, Baldur had already crafted thin Bone Steel wires that he could braid into a cable.
The steel wire wasn't ideal for a bowstring, but it would suffice for now as the only material capable of withstanding the strain. As Baldur set to work, he suddenly became aware of a distant sound—a soft explosion and some shouts.
Setting down his half-finished cable, Baldur quickly stood up and looked toward his miners. "Stay here, or else," he warned, his tone dripping with the threat of violence. Receiving weak nods of compliance from the three workers, Baldur dashed through the cave until he reached the entrance, where he could see down the mountain to his home.
In the distance, Baldur spotted a figure rolling on the ground, screaming near his once-operational steam-powered pump. The figure was surrounded by three others who stood back, observing the destruction. The sight of his ruined machine sent Baldur into a rage. His eyes shifted from blue to purple before transforming entirely into a fiery orange-red.
Without hesitation, Baldur sprinted down the mountain, covering the distance of over 10 miles in roughly seven minutes. As he got closer, he blocked out the sights and sounds around him, focusing solely on his damaged water pump. After a moment, he tore his gaze away and turned toward the unconscious man, who had finally passed out from severe steam burns.
Gritting his teeth, Baldur stomped toward the motionless figure and began dragging him toward the partially thawed river. Someone tugged on his hide shirt, but he swatted them away without a second thought.
"Mom!" a young voice shouted.
Reaching the river, Baldur shifted his grip from the man's hair to his neck. He knelt down, thrusting the man's head into the freezing waters. It took a few moments before the intruder began to thrash around, but Baldur held him firmly in place. His eyes glowed with the same intensity as a forge, fueled by his anger.
Once again, he felt someone tugging on his shirt, but they recoiled in pain almost as soon as they touched him. With the struggling man's movements ceasing, Baldur released his grip and stood up, turning around. Before him stood a boy, holding a horribly burned hand. Tears streamed down the child's face, but he stood firm, refusing to retreat from Baldur's gaze.
"P-please, sir! We didn't mean any harm," the woman pleaded, her voice quivering. She stepped forward, attempting to act as a protective barrier for her child. Clinging to the woman's leg was a small girl. "He didn't mean to break it, I swear."
A scoff escaped Baldur's lips. He had heard that before, too many times in fact.
---
Flashback
A young James sat on the floor, engrossed in playing with his clockwork toys—the few precious possessions he had. He was lost in his own world of gears and springs when a group of boys from the orphanage surrounded him, their jeers and laughter piercing the air.
"Look at the freak," one of them sneered, and the others joined in, mocking and taunting him.
"Having fun playing all by yourself, dummy?"
"Did you guys know he can't even read yet? He's already six!"
They ridiculed him for not being able to read at the age of six, belittling him for reasons he couldn't understand. James tried his best to ignore them, but their hurtful words stung his heart. He had done nothing wrong, yet they constantly targeted him. He mustered the strength to resist giving them the reaction they wanted, but they were relentless.
Suddenly, two larger boys closed in on James, restraining him tightly while the others snatched his beloved clockwork toys and ruthlessly smashed them underfoot. James struggled against their grip, a sense of powerlessness overwhelming him. Tears welled up in his eyes as he witnessed the destruction of his only companions—his friends who never judged him. In that moment, a faint spark of resentment and sadness grew within him, extinguishing whatever innocence and trust he had left.
Over the years, James painstakingly rebuilt his clockwork toys time and time again, only to have his tormentors derive immense pleasure from destroying them repeatedly. But one day, James had finally reached his breaking point. Consumed by rage, he tapped into an unknown reserve of strength and managed to break free from the grasp of his captors. With newfound determination, he tackled one of the older boys, retaliating against the relentless cycle of destruction.
Engaged in a wrestling match, James found himself on top, unleashing his pent-up frustration on the older boy. The first strike landed with a snap, likely breaking the boy's nose, and the second blow followed swiftly. Just as he was about to deliver another strike, an adult intervened, pulling James away from his victim.
James fought against the hold, his strength momentarily fleeting. Exhausted, he succumbed to the workers at the orphanage, who eventually managed to subdue him, separating him from his bullies.
Later that day, James was called in for questioning to present his side of the story. He recounted how the older boys had constantly bullied him and destroyed his belongings. He apologized, insisting that he didn't mean to harm the boy—it was an accident.
Unfortunately, the older boys had spun a different narrative. The matron of the orphanage branded James a liar, informed him that the older boys had borrowed his toys and accidentally broken them. They claimed to be sorry and begged for forgiveness, but James, driven by anger, had attacked them. The matron chastised him, accusing him of breaking the older boy's nose and deeming it unacceptable. He was to be punished for hurting the others, being labeled as dangerous, and would be sent to a juvenile detention center for a year before being required to return to the orphanage.
James seethed with anger, but as a ten-year-old boy, there was little he could do. When he expressed remorse, he was punished, yet others who claimed accidents faced no consequences. That day, something within James snapped, and his perception of others became clouded in shades of gray.
When James returned from the detention center a year later, he was met with cold shoulders from everyone present. He was burdened with additional chores compared to the others and received meager scraps as his meals. However, slowly but surely, James adapted to his solitary existence, finding solace in the company of his machines. They became his unwavering companions in a world that had proven to be so harsh and unforgiving.
End of flashback
---
"I highly doubt that," Baldur said with a furrowed brow, his voice dripping with skepticism. "People are always too quick to apologize when they get caught doing something they shouldn't, like breaking my belongings." Venom oozed from his words as unpleasant memories resurfaced.
The woman remained silent, holding back a retort, while the young girl sobbed softly, seeking solace in her mother's embrace. The boy stood there, mouth agape, his eyes widened by the tense confrontation. Summoning courage, the son stepped forward, breaking free from his mother's protective shield.
Before he could utter words he might regret, Baldur intervened. "Leave before I consider employing child labor," he warned, gesturing toward the lifeless body. "And remove him from my water supply before he contaminates it any further."
The boy clenched his jaw, casting a glance back at his mother and sister, before swallowing hard and mustering the strength to approach his father's lifeless form. Sensing the urgency, the woman swiftly followed her son's lead, and together they dragged the remains away from Baldur.
Once they were at a safe distance, Baldur took a deep breath, his emotions settling, and approached his fallen machine. Kneeling beside it, he offered a silent prayer to his father before closely examining the extent of the damage.
The water pump was a complex system designed to utilize escaping steam from the engine to heat up the nearby river and the entire length of pipes. Its inner workings involved nested pipes, with one drawing water toward Baldur's dwelling. Additionally, some water was channeled toward the steam engine's boiler. As the steam escaped from the piston, it was redirected into the larger pipe, which held the water line. The heated gas traveled both to the river and to Baldur's residence, ensuring the pipes remained warm enough to prevent water from freezing and bursting.
What the assailant had damaged was the valve leading to the piston, closing off the pipe and causing a dangerous buildup of steam. The boiler had exploded, and it was likely the escaping steam that had caused the man's burns.
Thinking back, Baldur struggled to piece together the sequence of events that had led to the boy's hand getting burned, replaying the scene repeatedly in his mind. Though he couldn't pinpoint the exact details, he surmised that the child had somehow been injured while trying to stop him from killing his father. The exact mechanism eluded him, but the realization that he was most likely responsible momentarily diverted his attention from the machine.
Baldur reflected on how, whenever he grew angry, he felt a peculiar heat coursing through him. This sensation was unusual, as nothing ever felt genuinely "hot" to a child of Hephaestus. Perhaps it was a new blessing bestowed upon him by his father, or a final gift resembling his younger brother Leo's pyrokinesis.
Whatever the cause, Baldur was determined to understand it through trial and error, as he always did, relentlessly pursuing knowledge and seeking to further himself and his machines.
Determined to address the situation after gathering his workers from the mine, Baldur turned his gaze toward the towering mountain. However, his attention was momentarily diverted when something caught his eye in the snow, not far from his damaged machine. Resting there, nestled in the snow, was a small bag.
Curiosity piqued, Baldur picked up the bag and carefully rummaged through its contents. To his surprise, he discovered an aged, leather-bound book within. The texture of the leather was unlike anything Baldur had encountered before, resembling human skin with its porous surface. Unfazed by the peculiar material, he opened the book and began skimming its contents.
The pages of the book were indeed crafted from the same eerie human leather, and the text was written in a dark red liquid that appeared to be blood. As Baldur examined the words, a strange realization washed over him—he understood the text perfectly, much like his first encounter with Ancient Greek.
A peculiar thought struck Baldur, prompting him to hastily return to his warehouse. Retrieving a dagger from his belt, he began writing on a carving into a plank of wood, alternating between English and Greek. As he wrote, he observed how the English words maintained their usual form, but to his surprise, the Greek text behaved the same way—swirling and shifting just as the English did. This revelation led Baldur to suspect that his rebirth in this realm had somehow tampered with his divine essence, as minuscule as it may have been. He cast a thoughtful gaze at the book in his hand, rubbing his chin in contemplation.
"Interesting," he murmured to himself, his mind brimming with questions and possibilities.
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